


Cross Your Heart and Pray Not to Die

by snapdragonpop007



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I did Actual Research for this, It's VERY complicated, M/M, Murder, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Break Up, Smoking, Swearing, Time Skips, Undercover, i don't know how to tag without spoiling, it's the sixties my dudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapdragonpop007/pseuds/snapdragonpop007
Summary: Ricky Goldsworth and Clyde Tinsley parted ways three years ago in an explosion of violence and left miles of silence and blood between them.Ricky never expected them to meet again.Tinsley, however, wasn't ready to let him go.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

_1967, Chicago_

Tinsley hadn’t seen Ricky Goldsworth in years—not since he had let the younger Goldsworth twin walk out of his life with blood staining his skin and blooming across his teeth, with the knife still in his hand and Tinsley’s heart firmly lodged in his breast pocket. 

Tinsley did not regret letting Ricky Goldsworth leave. 

He hated letting Ricky Goldsworth leave, but he would never—could never—regret it. 

He wished that he did. 

Because then Tinsley wouldn’t have to be standing here, in a run down part of Chicago in an even more run down building, holding a broken arm to his chest and swallowing blood and teeth and a wish and staring at Ricky Fucking Goldsworth in flickering lighting and a haze of cigarette smoke. He still looked breathtakingly beautiful—even with blood in his teeth Ricky had looked beautiful—and Tinsley almost hated it. He wanted to tell Ricky that he hated it. 

“I need your help.” He said instead. 

Ricky’s eyes flicked up and down Tinsley’s hunched over frame, settling on his broken arm for a moment before jumping back to his face. “Clearly.” 

Ricky wasn’t wearing anything but a too large button up that was white enough that it was almost see through. It fell just shy of halfway down his thighs, and Tinsley stared. 

“Get in, then,” Ricky sighed, opening the door further and slamming it shut again when Tinsley slipped inside. “Artemis, dear, I’m afraid we’re going to have to cut this short. Something came up.”

Tinsley snapped his head up. 

There was a man sprawled across the couch, lost in the haze of cigarette smoke and the lingering smell of sex. He wasn’t wearing anything, and Tinsley bit his cheek and swallowed more blood. Ricky swooped down to pick up a pair of pants and a shirt, and he threw them at the man and herded him out of the little apartment before he was coherent enough to ask what was happening. Ricky locked the door behind them, then turned to face Tinsley. He frowned, pushed himself off the door and brushed past Tinsley to get to the bathroom.

“Sit.” He said. 

“Who was that?” Tinsley asked. 

“Are you jealous, Tinman?”

Tinsley couldn’t see Ricky, but he could hear him rummaging around in the bathroom. What he could do was imagine the smirk that would be playing at Ricky’s lips, the spark in eyes that were so brown they were nearly black, the way his smirk would turn into a genuine smile when he looked at Tinsley--

Tinsley’s heart clenched when Ricky stepped from the bathroom, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and a med kit in hand. “I thought I told you to sit.”

“Sorry.” Tinsley hesitated by the couch, then moved to the kitchen table to sit. 

Ricky rolled his eyes, sliding up on the table while Tinsley sat in one of the chairs. He set the med kit down, and Tinsley hated that he was so entranced by the simple movement. 

“How fucked is your arm?” Ricky asked. He leaned forward, fingers fliting over Tinsley’s chest and undoing the buttons of his shirt with a practiced ease. It was like they hadn’t been apart for three years, like this was something they did every day.

“It’s uh...it’s definitely broken.” Tinsley swallowed. Ricky was so close to him, and he just wanted to reach out and pull him close and never let him go again. “Can you set it?”

“Depends on how clean of a break it is.” Ricky slid Tinsley’s shirt off his shoulders, then wrapped his fingers around Tisnely’s wrist and took his arm into his lap with a gentleness that he wouldn't’ have ever associated with The Golden State Butcher. 

Tinsley wouldn't have associated a lot of things about Ricky with The Golden State Butcher. Not when he first met him, at any rate. 

Ricky’s fingers trailed along the molted greens and blues blooming across the skin of Tinsley’s arm. Tinsley hissed at the contact, and Ricky tightened his hold on Tinsley’s wrist so he coudn’t jerk it back and fuck it up even more. His arm wasn’t bent at any odd angles, but his forearm was swollen and bruised and bloodied, and Tinsley could only hope that it was a clean break and that his bone wasn’t completely shattered.

“Did someone take a fucking crowbar to your arm?” Ricky asked.

Tinsley didn’t answer. 

Ricky sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus Christ, Clyde.” 

“I’d rather not have my fucking arm broken either, Ricky.” Tinsley snapped back. 

Ricky squeezed Tinsley’s wrist painfully tight. Tinsley yelped, and Ricky let up the pressure. 

“It’s just a base fracture. Nothing’s actually snapped,” Ricky said slowly, voice low and dangerous. “You got lucky.” 

“Great.” Tinsley didn’t take his arm back, and Ricky didn’t let it go. 

It had been so long since Tinsley had seen Ricky, and the only thing Tinsley had forgotten about him was the things that time had changed. His eyes were still as dark as the coffee grounds Tinsley drank from every morning, although the lines at the corner of his eyes were etched deeper. His skin had darkened a little underneath the Chicago sun, his hair had gotten just a touch longer, and his scars faded to a shade paler than they had been when Tinsley had last traced over them with blood stained fingers. 

Tinsley wanted to ask if Ricky came to Chicago for him. 

Instead he jerked his arm back. 

Ricky held his hand back out. “Let me at least wrap it so you don’t fuck it up more.” 

Tinsley ground his teeth together. He had spit out blood and a tooth earlier, but he was now just noticing it’s absence--a molar, right at the back of his mouth. He probed at the empty space with his tongue, tasting blood and flesh as he jerked his arm back to Ricky’s hand. 

Ricky wasn’t gentle as he wrapped it. He squeezed Tinsley’s arm tight and yanked the bandages even tighter, and Tinsley would swear that he felt the bone crack further. He jerked and winced with each tug, and Ricky smiled each time. 

When he was done he dropped the role of bandages and Tinsley’s arm. He caught it before it banged into the table, cradling it back to his chest. Ricky’s own hands fell on Tinsley’s chest, and he slowly danced his fingers up his neck and jaw, cradling bruises and cuts and bone and skin and swiping the blood on Tinsley’s lips away with the warm pad of his thumb. Ricky was gentle with this, he was always gentle with this, and Tinsley closed his eyes and leaned into it and finally took a moment to just breath. 

“What happened to you, Clyde?” Ricky asked softly. 

Tinsley swallowed. It tasted like copper and regret. 

“I didn’t know who else to go to.” he opened his eyes again.

Ricky’s face did something odd. He frowned for a moment, then looked completely anguished. Then it all smoothed out, and he was looking at Tinsley with a blank look. “So, something bad, then.”

Tinsley nodded. 

“Who did you piss off?”

“Mob,” Tinsley mumbled. A wall of tiredness slammed into him, making him sway and struggle to keep his eyes open. “Not--not your brother, it was--someone else.” 

Ricky was so warm, and Tinsley just wanted to fall into his lap and close his eyes. Just for a moment, that was all. Just a moment. 

“Don’t--damnit, Clyde, do not--” Ricky’s hands shot down to Tinsley’s shoulders as he pitched forward. Tinsley could sit back up--he should sit back up--but he was so tired and Ricky was so warm and he smelled just like tobacco and lemon and something else that Tinsley had been trying to find since he left him behind. “Do not pass out on me you son of a bitch--”

Tinsley did. 

\--

Tinsley pitched forward into Ricky’s stomach, and Ricky shot his hands out to wrap around his shoulders and haul him further up so he didn’t go crashing to the ground.

Ricky sucked in a deep breath, held it, and then let it go. 

He had been having a nice night. He had gotten fucked by his newest fling in the long string of broken hearts and bodies he had left behind him, and he had plans to continue getting fucked for most of the night. He deserved it, it would have been nice and sweaty and just the kind of exhaustion that Ricky needed, and then Detective Clyde Tinsley had shown up outside his door looking like he had gotten gangbanged by a crowbar.

Ricky took another breath so he didn’t shove Tinsley to the floor, then he snuck his hands onto his chest and gently pushed him back into the chair. He was like a rag doll in Ricky’s hands--limbs limp and going wherever Ricky guided them to. 

Tinsley was going to be sore when he woke up again, but that was his own god damn fault for passing out at the kitchen table.

Ricky huffed and slid off the table.

He was going to have to call Ryan, and he was absolutely not in the mood for that. 

“God fucking--” Ricky lifted a hand and gave his hair a sharp tug, then marched towards the phone hanging just to the left of the refrigerator. He yanked it off the hook, jamming it against his ear as he all but punched out the number. 

It was close to one in the morning in New York, but if Ryan didn’t answer then Shane would. Neither of them slept much. 

He was hoping Shane would answer.

He didn’t want to deal with Ryan’s bullshit right now. 

He leaned against the fridge, tucking his arm over his stomach and into his side as the phone rang. He looked at Tinsley--still passed out and sprawled across the chair--taking in the angry red lines on his jaw and the bruise on his cheek and the blood still bleeding from the cuts on his lips and inside his mouth. He wasn’t going to choke on it--there wasn’t enough for that--but Ricky wouldn’t be surprised if he had lost a tooth.

“Ricky?”

“Shane! Baby,” Ricky turned away from Tinsley. “What are you wearing right now?”

“The fuck do you want, Ricky?” Shane’s voice crackled over the phone line.

Ricky smiled. “Is my dick of a brother around?”

“No. He’s out for the night.” Ricky could hear the frown in Shane’s voice, see him adjusting the phone as he got a better grip on it. “Why? What’s going on?” 

“Have him call me in the morning, ‘kay? And you call more often too--we could have some great phone sex.”

“Ricky, wait--”

Ricky hung up. 

The phone made a satisfying crack as he put it back in the holder. He held the phone for a little while longer, squeezing it and wishing he could just break it. Then he slid his hand off and looked back at Tinsley. He was starting to come back to life.

Ricky bit back a sigh and went to get him a glass of water and some tylenol. 

Tinsley was going to need some god damn morphine if he really wanted to kick back the pain, but unfortunately for him Ricky didn’t have any lying around, nor was he in the mood to go rob a hospital. Tinsley was just going to have to suck it up, and Ricky thought that he deserved at least some of it. 

Ricky filled up a clean glass with water from the sink, setting it in front of Tinsley. He slid back up on the table, fishing the bottle of tylenol out of the med kit and watching Tinsley as he woke.

“Welcome back to Kansas, Tinman.” he said, plucking out three of the little red pills. “You enjoy your trip?” 

Tinsley blinked slowly at him. His eyes were bloodshot, but still Ricky’s favorite hue of green.

“I--I didn’t--fuck--” Tinsley lifted the arm that wasn’t broken, running it through his hair and tugging out dried flakes of blood.

“Let me see,” Ricky held out his hands, and when Tinsley didn’t immediately come to him he scowled and reached forward to cup the back of Tinsley’s neck and pull him closer. Tinsley ducked his head down, pushing it against Ricky’s chest and Ricky poked and prodded at his scalp. Nothing felt broken, but there was a cut just behind his ear and a bruise right below that. Ricky hummed and gently pushed Tinsley back. “Well, your head’s not broken.”

Tinsley blinked at him. 

He swayed forward, and for a moment Ricky thought he was going to pass out again before he straightened. 

“Right. Well, I’ll just go--”

“Don’t.” Ricky shot his arm out, catching Tinsley’s half buttoned shirt before he could even stand. “You’re going to end up dead in a gutter if you leave now, and then I’ll have to live with that disgusting image for the rest of my life.” 

Tinsley looked down at Ricky’s hand and stared.

He probably had a concussion, now that Ricky thought about it. 

“Why don’t you go lay down--”

“Not on the couch.” Tinsley cut him off, snapping his eyes back up. 

“Jesus fucking--” Ricky pinched the bridge of his nose. He forgot how fucking painful it was dealing with a concussed Clyde Tinsley. “Fine. Go take my goddamn bed then, just go fucking lay down before I beat you with a crowbar.” 

Tinsley looked at him--Tinsley had been looking at him since he first stepped through the door, and Ricky didn’t understand why--then smiled.

_1963, Los Angeles_

Tinsley had met Ricky Goldsworth on a rainy summer night, when he had been going to a bar that Ricky had just been leaving. 

It had been a long day spent entirely in front of a dead body, and Tinsley just wanted to get shitfaced and forget it for as long as he was permitted to. And Tinsley had forgotten that night, because a man with pretty brown eyes had told him to. 

“I wouldn’t go in there,” Ricky had said. He hadn’t had an umbrella, and he was already soaking wet. “Shit’s about to hit the fan.” 

Tinsley frowned. He wasn’t particularly in the mood to stop a bar fight tonight--although he certainly wouldn’t mind getting in the middle of one--but he also didn’t want to walk that much further for a drink. At that point he would have just gone home and drank right from his whiskey bottle, but he was feeling sociable tonight.

Well, not sociable, perhaps.

It was more like he didn’t want to get lost in his own thoughts tonight. 

“Where would you suggest I go, then?” 

Ricky’s hair was plastered to his temple, the rain water dripping down his cheeks and nose and eyelashes. They looked like little gems with the way they shown in the lamplight. He grinned, and water and blood and lies fell from his teeth.

“Home,” he said. “Or I can take you somewhere, if you’re in the habit of trusting strangers.”

“I’m not.” 

But Tinsley followed him anyway, because he could never really say no to men with pretty brown eyes. 

They went to a little hole in the wall bar first, a place Tinsley hadn’t ever known was there. Although, to be fair, he hadn’t lived in Los Angeles his whole life like Ricky had. He had only come here two years ago, on a transfer to a bigger police station that needed more homicide detectives than tiny, middle of nowhere Fayetteville.

And Tinsley, as much as he hated the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles, loved it just as much, because when Ricky took him home no one said a damn thing. 

They fucked that night, hard and fast and filthy in the afterglow of just a bit too much wine, and when Tinsley tried to leave in the early morning Ricky caught his wrist and asked him to stay and have breakfast with him. 

_1967, Chicago_

Ricky didn’t let Tinsley sleep, but Tinsley hadn’t minded. 

He was in Ricky’s bed after years of being out of it, and it--it felt better than what it probably should have. 

Ricky had given Tinsley about an hour to get his bearings and calm down before he came back into the room.

“I need a little bit more than ‘the mob’, Tinseltown,” Ricky had slipped into his boxers so he was at least a little more covered, and Tinsley could admit that he wished Ricky hadn’t. If he actually let himself, he could admit that he wished Ricky would get into bed with him instead of sitting in the chair he had pulled up to the bedside and kiss him hard enough to make him bleed again. 

God, how fucked up did Tinsley have to be to still pine after Ricky? 

“I was...doing undercover work.” Tinsley said slowly. It didn't matter if he told anyone now. He was fucked no matter what he did. “But I--”

“You fucked up.” Ricky finished. He didn’t seem surprised to learn that Tinsley had been doing undercover work. It wouldn’t surprise Tinsley if Ricky had known from the very beginning. “How bad did you fuck up?”

Tinsley took a deep breath. “I killed DeSimone.” 

Ricky stayed silent long enough for Tinsley to become uncomfortable and squirm and contemplate yelling at Ricky to get him to say something. 

“You killed,” Ricky said slowly. “The head of the LA mob?” 

Tinsley turned away. He heard Ricky take in a sharp breath and let it out and curse up a storm in fast staccato Spanish. 

“How the fuck are you not dead?”

“Because some people wanted him dead.” Tinsley snapped back. He didn’t yell it--it hurt too much to yell and Ricky’s own raised voice was making his ears ring.

“Oh, let me guess. Now those people are dead, too.” 

“Ricky--”

“Don’t--do not.” Ricky looked ready to strangle him. “God--you can’t just kill--what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“A lot of things.” Tinsley said softly. “But I thought you already knew that.” 

Ricky looked at him, then stood sharply and stalked out of the room. 

Tinsley watched him go with an ache in his chest. It had been so long since he felt the way Ricky could make his heart beat and skip and contort that he thought for a moment he might be dying. But then he remembered, and it seemed to hurt all the more. 

They didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the night.

_1963, Los Angeles_

Ricky’s eyes were a startling shade of brown in the morning light. 

They looked like old brown glass bottles with the way the light hit them, making golds and bronzes swim across his eyes and shine every time he blinked. 

“You want me to stay?” Tinsley asked. 

He didn’t think he had heard right, that his mind was still foggy from the booze and sex. 

Ricky smiled something sweet and sleepy and dangerous. Tinsley should have known to stay away then, because that was a smile he had seen accompanied with blood and broken teeth all too often. It was the kind of smile that had seen Tinsley with bloody lips and broken teeth, because it was a smile he couldn’t ever seem to say no to.

“Yes,” Ricky had caught Tinsley’s wrist, and now he trailed his fingers down the bone to his fingers. He laced their fingers together, thumb rubbing along the back of Tinsley’s hand. “Have breakfast with me.” 

“Okay.”

Ricky smiled a little wider, then tugged Tinsley back into the bed and kissed him. 

Tinsley hummed, laying his hand gently on Ricky’s cheek. He pushed himself closer, molded himself around Ricky, let him peel off the shirt he had slipped back on and kiss him slowly and sweetly. 

Ricky was so gentle with him.

His hands floated along Tinsley’s skin, lips kissing dips and hollows and scars. He held Tinsley just as close as Tinsley held him, and he remembered thinking through this gentleness that he could fall in love with Ricky Goldsworth. 

“There’s a little dinner just down the road,” Ricky spoke when he pulled back, leaning forward again to kiss a spot just underneath Tinsley’s jaw. “I'm terrible at cooking.” 

Tinsley laughed. 

—

The diner was a homely little thing. The chairs were all mismatched and the tables all had that well used wobble to them, fake plants and photographs lined the walls and the shelves, and their waitress was a little old lady with a sweet smile and warm tone in her voice. She was delighted to see Ricky and even more delighted to see Tinsley, giving him a bright smile and telling him how happy she was to see Ricky with friends. 

Ricky huffed a laugh into his coffee cup.

“Let me know if you boys need anything, alright?” She gave them another smile before bustling back to the kitchen. 

Tinsley watched her go, then looked back to Ricky. 

“She likes you,” Ricky gave him a bright smile over the rim of his coffee cup. 

“Good for me.” Tinsley mumbled. He took a sip from his own coffee--it wasn’t anything special, just your regular Folgers that had been sitting in the pot for far too long. It was stale and left behind an odd taste in his mouth, but Tinsley was too starved for caffeine to really care. 

Ricky’s smile got a little softer. 

It was unfair, really, how pretty he looked sitting in the corner booth of a shitty diner in the clothes he wore last night, holding a cup of coffee with sleep still in his eyes. Tinsley wanted to hate it, but even then he knew there was nothing about Ricky Goldsworth that he could possibly hate. 

_1967, Chicago_

Ricky must have deemed his concussion fine enough at some point, because Tinsley woke up to the sound of Ricky yelling.

He clambered out of bed, hissing as he twisted his arm at an awkward angle. It sent a surge of pain up his spine, and Tinsley stood with his tongue between his teeth while he waited for it to fade to something manageable. Then he left the room and went into the kitchen.

Ricky fell silent just as Tinsley crossed the threshold. He was scowling and pacing the length of the kitchen that the phone cord would allow, and when he caught sight of Tinsley he made a beeline right towards. 

“Just fucking talk to him yourself, burro!” Ricky snapped it out, then shoved the phone in Tinsley’s chest. “It’s for you, Tinseltown.”

Then he stormed out of the kitchen. 

Tinsley watched, then lifted the phone to his ear.

“Ryan?” he asked, because really, who else could it be?

“Lovely to hear from you again.” Ryan said. “How’s the arm?”

“Broken.” 

Ryan laughed. It was a gritty sounding thing from all his years of smoking and breathing in the ash and factory fumes of New York. “Oh, Tinsley, I’ve missed you.”

Tinsley smiled. He liked Ryan well enough, but he certainly wasn’t his favorite Goldsworth. 

“I--I’m going to need your help.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Ryan hummed. There was a lot of background noise going on, but Tinsley didn’t really care enough to listen to it. “DeSimone's gets yanked and the grapevine won’t shut up--that was you that did it, right?” 

Tinsley sighed. “Yeah.” 

Another laugh. “Damn, Tinsley. Didn’t think you had it in ya.” 

“Ryan--” Tinsley bit it out, grit his teeth and squeezed the phone. 

“I can’t do anything for ya if you’re in Chicago. You want my help, come to New York.” and then Ryan hung up, leaving Tinsley standing in the middle of the kitchen with the phone still pressed to his ear. 

Tinsley took in a deep breath, then hung the phone back up. 

“Is he going to help you or not?”

Tinsley startled. 

Ricky was leaning against the door frame, agitation clear in his voice and posture. His lips were tugged into a frown, his hip cocked and arms crossed over his chest. He had gotten dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt--not at all his usual three pieces. The sight of it made Tinsley’s heart flip and scuttle. 

“If I go to New York.” Tinsley answered. 

Ricky rolled his eyes and grumbled something in Spanish. Tinsley knew enough to catch a few words--most of which were curses--but then Ricky took a deep breath and sighed it out and then fixed Tinsley with a level stare that wasn’t threatening so much as it was analyzing. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and Tinsley was so startled by the genuine concern that it took a moment to process. “You didn’t die last night, so it must not be too bad.” 

A laugh spilled from Tinsley’s lips. “It’s--yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Ricky hummed, then pushed himself off the wall. He made his way towards Tinsley slowly, and Tinsley watched him. He didn’t step back when Ricky stood chest to chest with him, didn’t pull away when Ricky reached for his arm, and he stood still and silent as Ricky looked it over and trailed his fingers along the bandages. 

“You need a proper cast for that, Tinman,” he spoke softly. 

Ricky was so close that if Tinsley leaned down he could press his lips to his cheek. “What, your medical care not good enough?”

“My medical care is shaky at best.” Ricky looked up, noticed the proximity, and stepped back. 

Tinsley had to stop himself from following after. 

“I know some people--I can get one of them over here, if you don’t want to go to a hospital.” Ricky said.

Tinsley swallowed and pretended he wasn’t as hurt by that as what he was. There was three years worth of distance between them, and Tinsley knew damn well he had no right to feel like this. “Yeah, that’s um...that’s probably for the best.” 

But God, he just wanted to reach out and pull Ricky close and breath in his scent and skin and kiss his lips and swallow his lies and ask what he did wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

_1967, just outside Chicago_

Tinsley hissed as another punch was thrown into him--this one finally throwing him to the ground--but he did not cry out, not even when his head smacked against the back of the alley’s wall and rocks dug into his palms. He would not give them the satisfaction of it. 

“You really thought you could get away with it, huh?” Willy stepped on his chest, _hard_. It stole the breath from his lungs, but Tinsley grinned anyway.

“I already did,” 

Willy scowled and kicked his jaw, and Tinsley spit out a tooth. 

Willis Weatherby was not DiSimmon’s right hand man. No, that had been Tinsley’s job. He was also not DiSimmon’s attack dog. That, for however long he had cared to do it, had been Ricky’s job. Willis Weatherby had been whatever was closest to those two things, but Tinsley thought that if Willis Weatherby had been either of those things he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. 

He would probably still be in Ricky’s Los Angeles apartment, making coffee and lazy kisses and he would still be extraordinarily happy and not currently lying in a pile of shit.

“You may have made it to Chicago, Tinsley, but you sure as hell didn’t make it to Goldsworth.” Willy spit it out and put more weight onto Tinsley. 

Tinsley lifted his hands and wrapped them around Willy’s leg and tried to push him off, but he couldn’t get the right leverage. 

Someone handed Willy a crowbar, and Tinsley gasped as Willy brought it down on his arm. He heard the crack first, and then the pain came, stealing whatever air was left in his lungs and sending liquid fire through his bones. He bit his cheek to keep himself from making a sound and let go of Willy’s leg. He was sure he bit hard enough to draw blood, but the taste of copper and zinc and salt was already in his mouth, so he couldn't honestly tell. 

He spit out whatever was in his mouth. Tinsley could see a gleam of red in the dull glow of the streetlamp.

“I can't believe you would even _think_ to come back to him,” this time the crowbar hit Tinsley’s stomach and he swallowed back the bile that came with it. “After what you did? You’d be lucky if he didn’t shoot you on sight!”

Tinsley managed to grab the end of the crowbar before it connected with his ribs. 

“I’ve been told I’ve got a lot of luck, Willis.” Tinsley yanked the crowbar hard enough that Willy stumbled forward, and then Tinsley kicked him back. 

_1967, New York_

“Tinsley’s in some shit, huh?” 

“Tinsley’s always in some shit,” Ryan glanced back at Legs. He hadn’t heard him come into his little office, but, to be fair, he rarely did. For someone so large, Legs was awfully quiet and graceful in his movements. “But yeah. He’s got himself in some shit.”

Legs hummed. “Know why he did it?”

“I didn’t ask. ‘s not my business.” Ryan kicked back in his chair, tilting his head and watching Legs come further into the office. He didn’t take a seat, not yet. Legs was always careful about things like this—careful not to upset who he was around and who he was talking to. “For god's sake, Legs, Just sit! You’re pacin’ like my ma.”

“I am not _pacing_.” Legs glared, but sat on the couch and sank right into it. “Is Tinsley going to come here, then?”

Ryan hummed, wondering--not for the first time--why Legs had such a proper way of speaking. 

Ryan leaned forward to pluck a half finished and still smoking cigarette out of the ashtray on his desk. He popped it in his mouth, breathing in and watching the embers glow. He knew he should quit smoking. It was the one thing Ricky asked him to do before they started fighting, but that’s probably why Ryan still did it. “Prolly. It’s not like Chicago is a safe place for ‘em.” 

Chicago might just be worse than Los Angeles, if Ryan would let himself be honest. 

Legs didn’t reply to that. 

Instead he looked out the window, all the dazzling night lights of New York reflecting from the glass and in his eyes. Ryan wouldn’t admit that he was staring, but he certainly wasn’t looking away either. He knew that Legs’ nose was crooked from all the times it’s been broken, but this time he seemed to notice it. Then Legs looked back at Ryan and blinked, and the reflection was gone. 

Ryan always did like the lights of New York better than he did Los Angeles.

“You know Ricky is going to come with him, right?” Legs asked.

“Yeah. I know.”

Ryan breathed in deep, letting the smoke settle in his lungs before breathing it back out. It tasted sweet and sticky and left ash on his teeth.

_1963, Los Angeles_

Tinsley was late for his meeting with DeSimmon.

He was usually late to these things, but today he was running later than usual because Ricky had taken hold of his wrist and hadn’t let him go until he was completely wrecked and utterly satisfied. Tinsley hadn’t minded because he liked doing it.

And maybe Tinsley should be concerned with how quickly and easily he had fallen into Ricky’s life and his bed. It hadn’t even been a few weeks since that first night, but Tinsley had already woken up next to Ricky and thought _god I think I love you_ , and for the first time Tinsley hadn’t cared that he thought it and he pulled Ricky against him and fell back asleep and kissed him when he woke up again. 

It was good and nice and wonderful and Tinsley didn’t want to run away from it. 

“You’re late.” DeSimmon said. 

“Sorry, I was…” Tinsley paused, gathering his thoughts as he closed the door behind him. “I had stuff to do.”

DeSimmon hummed. He didn’t necessarily care that Tinsley was late—he never did, really, he was more or less just putting on a show for the newer recruits. “I don’t care who you fuck, Tinsley, just don’t let it interfere with work.”

Tinsley felt his face heat up. “ ‘course, sir.”

He had been expecting it, but it still made his heart beat wildly. Tinsley had always been a private man--you had to be, in small towns. The public life you crafted was entirely different from your private one, and Tinsley grew up knowing to keep your secrets guarded and tucked away somewhere even the secret owner couldn’t find. Learning to be up front and in everyone's business had been the most difficult thing about cozying up with the Los Angeles mob. 

Tinsley had been asked to go undercover in the mob a year ago, and he hadn’t learned to accept this openness so much as he tolerated it. 

DiSimmon’s grinned and clapped him on the back. “She was pretty, right?”

“Absolutely beautiful,” Tinsley answered, thinking of the way the morning sunlight had threaded through Ricky’s hair and how his sun warmed skin had felt next to his. 

This, Tinsley hoped, would be the one part of his life Ricky would never be involved with.

And hopefully, if everything went right, it wouldn’t be. 

\--

“How’d your meeting go, Tinseltown?” Ricky was still lounging in bed when Tinsley came back. He held out a hand when Tinsley got close enough, tugging him back into the sheets and blankets. He wrapped himself around Tinsley as soon as he hit the mattress.

Ricky was warm from both the blankets and the sun, and Tinsley reveled in it. 

“It went just fine,” Tinsley hummed softly, kissing Ricky’s temple and tugging him even closer. 

DiSimmon had ordered a hit on some politician visiting Los Angeles. Tinsley hadn’t really cared for the details, and while he knew he should inform the police about it he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that either. 

Not when Ricky was holding him like this and kissing him like that. 

Tinsley had known, objectively, in that moment he was in trouble. And maybe if he had cared more to dwell on it things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did, and Tinsley could still be in that soft bed, still in that lavish apartment in Los Angeles, still with the man that had stolen his everything from right under his nose. 

_1967, Chicago_

Some girl had come to properly set and cast Tinsley’s arm. She was tall and pretty with bright blue eyes and long black hair and a _take no prisoners_ sort of attitude. Ricky introduced her as Fran, and she hadn’t been gentle with him like Ricky had been. 

“You owe me,” was all she told Ricky before she left again, leaving behind a proper cast on Tinsley and a scowl on Ricky and a small supply of oxycontin on the kitchen counter. _I’m not going to give you the good stuff_ she had told Tinsley. _You don’t deserve the good stuff._

Tinsley agreed with her. 

He didn’t deserve it. 

“Dios, she is so--” Ricky cut himself off. Tinsley could see his shoulder blades move as he took in a deep breath, and when he turned back around to look at Tinsley his scowl was gone. He wasn’t smiling. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine,” Tinsley spoke softly.

The fracture hadn’t been bad at all, really. Tinsley had to keep the cast on for a month, but he would be fine. Even with a crowbar Willy hadn’t been able to do much, and Tinsley wanted to laugh at it. He wanted to laugh at this entire thing, but Tinsley thought that if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

Ricky narrowed his eyes. 

Tinsley tensed, waiting for Ricky to say something. He had been waiting for Ricky to say something since last night, was still waiting for Ricky to scream at him and hit him and yell everything that Tinsley had stopped him from saying three years ago. He wanted Ricky to scream, because this cold indifference was worse. 

“You should take a shower,” Ricky finally said. “You look disgusting.” 

“I _just_ had a cast put on--”

“Put a trash bag over it.” Ricky stomped off to his bedroom, and Tinsley watched him go.

He wanted to push and bite back and start the fight that was brewing in the corners of every room. Tinsley wanted to get the screaming and the yelling over with, but there was still that part of him that wanted to let it go and fade away because he hated seeing Ricky upset and angry. So Tinsley rose from the kitchen table soundlessly, rooted around for a trash bag and tape, then went back to the bathroom. 

He didn’t pause to look at himself in the mirror, not wanting to see the sorry state that he was in, and sat on the edge of the tub and ripped the trash bag open. 

Ricky came in a few moments later with a clean towel and fresh clothes, and he took one look at Tinsley struggling before sighing and dropping the clothes and towel on the sink. “Jesus Christ, Clyde--” 

Ricky knelt on the floor right between Tinsley’s legs, taking the tape and the trash bag away from him. 

“Hold your arm out.”

Tinsley did, watching Ricky as he ripped up the trash bag further and wrapped it loosely around the cast. He didn’t look up as he worked, but Tinsley didn’t mind that, because it let him just look. 

He had forgotten how long Ricky’s eyelashes were, and he was delighted to still see faint freckles splashed across the bridge of Ricky’s nose. He remembered counting them once, holding Ricky’s jaw in his hands while Ricky laughed and weakly tried to push him away. They had been in Ricky’s apartment--they had always been in Ricky’s apartment--and when Ricky had finally pushed him away he just followed after Tinsley and Tinsley kissed his freckles instead.

Tinsley couldn’t remember the number now. He wished that he could. 

“There,” Ricky looked up, then looked at the bright strips of blue and purple that were blooming across Tinsley’s ribs.

Tinsley had taken off his shirt when Fran did his cast, because it had been easier to do instead of rolling up the sleeve. He had seen Ricky looking then, but now as Ricky looked he dropped the roll of tape and lifted a hand to gently place it over them. 

Ricky’s hand felt cold.

Or maybe it was just that Tinsley’s skin was warm. 

“They really did a number on you, huh?” Ricky’s fingers were nothing but a ghost on Tinsley’s skin--a featherlight touch that Tinsley wanted to lean into but knew that if he did Ricky would pull back and snap. 

Tinsley could never understand how someone so full of violence could be so god damn gentle. 

He shrugged, and the plastic bag rustled with the movement. “Could be worse, right?” 

Ricky’s hand paused, then drew back. “...you could be dead, I suppose.” 

He was so close, and if Tinsley just leaned forward a little more he could tangle his fingers in Ricky’s hair and put his nose against Ricky’s jaw and breath him in and drag his lips across stubble and warm skin until he was at Ricky’s lips--

Ricky jerked back. Tinsley hadn’t realized how close he had gotten. “Don’t--I’m not--I’m not fucking doing this with you right now.” 

“Ricky--”

But Ricky was already gone, slamming the bathroom door shut behind him. 

Tinsley swallowed, then sighed, then stood and got the water running, sticking his hand under to check the temperature. It was scalding and left his hand red and prickling when he pulled it back, but Tinsley didn’t feel like adjusting it. 

_1967, New York_

Ryan’s phone had been ringing non stop since Tinsley killed DiSimmon, but this was the first time Ryan had actually answered it. Well, the second time, he supposed. The first had been when Ricky called. 

“Look, Night Night,” the man who was on the phone was someone over in the Los Angeles mob who was the closest thing to being in charge right now. Ryan didn’t know his name, nor did he particularly care to know. “You have to understand where we’re coming from--”

“Oh, I do,” Ryan hummed, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he reached for his box of cigarettes. “But you have to understand that Tinsley is a friend of mine.”

“He killed DiSimmon,” the man said it blankly, like it should explain everything. 

“We all kill people, don’t we?” Ryan snatched his lighter, He flicked it a few times, but it must have been out of fuel because Ryan didn’t get anything more than a spark. 

Legs, who had decided to sit with Ryan through this bitch of a phone call, noticed. He pulled his own lighter out of his pocket, leaning across the desk to light Ryan’s cigarette for him. He cupped his hand around the cigarette as he lit it, smiling softly as he pulled back. It wasn’t dark in the room by any means, but the light from flame cast another layer onto Legs and made him seem softer. Ryan wanted to hate how soft that smile was. He could never hate anything that Legs did. 

“This is different.” the man snapped. 

Ryan took it a deep drag, then sighed the smoke out. “Look, kid--”

“I’m not a--!”

“--even if I didn’t give two shits about Tinsley,” Ryan continued on like he hadn’t been interrupted. “I can’t let go of what you tried to do to my brother.” 

The line went silent for a moment. “I’m sure you understand, Night Night, we meant nothing against you, but Ricky was a security issue--” 

“Then I’m sure you understand why I won’t help you.” Ryan hung up. 

He let out a groan and leaned back in his chair, taking a long puff and holding in the smoke until it burned. Then he let it out, took another drag, and did the same thing. It hurt and it felt good and Ryan kept doing it until his cigarette was half gone. 

“I’m surprised you stood up for Ricky,” Legs said it carefully, looking at Ryan with a tilted head.

“Yeah, well,” with how fast Ryan was going through his cigarettes he might as well just be eating them. “He’s still family.”

Legs was looking at him oddly, and Ryan wanted to hate that he couldn’t read his face but he just found it horribly endearing instead. “Just don’t bite off more than you can chew, Ryan.” 

“What am I gonna bite off, Legs? LA’s in shambles, Chicago don’t give a shit about Tinsley as long as he's not in the city, and no one else is dumb enough to mess with us.” Ryan frowned, sitting back up for a moment before leaning back again. 

He was too tired for this bullshit. 

Legs hummed. “I trust you, Ryan. I just worry about you, that’s all.” 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Ryan said.

“No, but I’m going to anyway.” 

Legs’ smiles were way too soft, and Ryan wished he could hate them. 

“I’m going to go try and get some sleep,” Legs stood. “You should try and get some too.” 

Ryan always seemed to forget just how tall he was until moments like this, where Legs stood towering over him. He didn’t do it often, always standing back and giving Ryan his space. Ryan always appreciated it, but in moments like this, where he forgot Legs’ stature, he wished Legs would stand this close to him more often. 

“Sure,” Ryan smiled, popping his cigarette back in his mouth as Legs left the office. 

He wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while. Ryan got saddled with sharing his brother’s insomnia as well as his looks, but unlike Ricky he didn’t try and cure it with booze and sex. He just suffered through it, or, on the occasion, sat out on the balcony with Legs until they both felt drowsy. 

Tonight, however, Ryan picked up the phone and called his mother. 

_1967, Chicago_

“Ricky,” Tinsley stood in the hall, not wanting to cross over into the living room without Ricky’s permission. “You can’t--come sleep in your bed. Sleeping on that couch two nights in a row isn’t good for you.”

Ricky scoffed. He was already huddled on the couch in a pile of blankets and pillows, and he looked so comfortable that Tinsley almost hated to ask him to move. “And where are you gonna sleep, Tinman?”

“We can share the bed.” Tinsley said it softly, scared to say it, to even think it. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.” 

Ricky looked at him. He didn’t look angry or sad or--or anything. He just looked blank. “What are you trying to do, Clyde?” 

“I...I don’t know.” Tinsley gripped the corner of the wall he was resting on tighter, relishing in the sharp edge pressing into his palm. He shouldn’t have said it, he knew he shouldn’t have said it, but still Tinsley didn’t want to take it back. 

He had missed Ricky so god damn much, and he hadn’t realized it until he was back with him and Tinsley hated it. 

“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to stay out here.” 

Tinsley didn’t know what he had been expecting, but the stab of disappointment was all too familiar. He swallowed it down, let go of the wall, and took a step back. “Yeah, that’s...good night, Ricky.” 

Ricky didn’t reply.

Tinsley hadn’t expected him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present a little bit of back story and a lot more of Night Night than what I had originally intended

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to make this a oneshot but I am 14 pages in and i am nowhere near close to being finished


End file.
